


A Kiss to Send Us Off

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Flashback, M/M, Misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-17
Updated: 2010-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is possible for Dean not to put his foot in his mouth...it's just not likely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss to Send Us Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [svana_vrika](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=svana_vrika).



> On the grand occasion of her birthday. Plot totally whammied me on this one, so it's a lot longer than I intended, but I had a great time writing it.

**Then**

Contrary to (Sam's) popular belief, it _is_ possible for Dean to string together a sentence without putting his foot into his mouth and out the back of his head. Just not right this minute. Right now he's concentrating on breathing – because _holy shit_ \- and there's nothing that's going to come out of his mouth in the next few minutes – hell, the next few hours – that isn't going to be clichéd or – God help him – possibly girly; and he is not a fucking girl, even if he did just let Cas fuck him through the mattress.

He finally manages to turn on his side, facing Cas, and prop himself up on one elbow. Cas' hair is sticking up six ways from Sunday, his lips wet and puffy, and he's staring at the ceiling, pupils wide and endless with awe, as if he's just had some amazing, rapturous experience. Dean lets himself feel just a little smug about that for a minute before he ventures, "Earth to Cas," tapping a finger against Castiel's temple. "Ground Control to Major Tom – you in there?"

Cas turns his head languorously, the weird, perfect grace of his movements accentuated in slow motion. "My name is not Tom."

He doesn't look peeved or confused when he says it though, just blissed out still – like he doesn't really care _what_ Dean calls him anymore.

"It's –" Dean starts, but then decides it really isn't worth the effort, so he smiles and gives his head a shake instead. "Ya know what, never mind."

Cas graces him with one of those tiny, lip-quirking smiles that normally only last a split second on his face; except this one lingers, like it might become a permanent fixture. Dean thinks he'd like that, actually. Cas needs to smile more, relax more, stop worrying so much about God and his douchebag angel brothers. Sure, the apocalypse is all set to bite them in the ass one day pretty damn soon, but what's the point of having last days on Earth if you can't enjoy them?

Even though he and Cas have practically built this messed-up almost-relationship of theirs on long, silent stares, it seems inappropriate now that they're naked together, so Dean says, "So how was your first taste of iniquity?"

At first, Cas doesn't answer, he just brings his hand over and runs his thumb back and forth across Dean's lower lip for a moment, then drags his lip back and slips his thumb into Dean's mouth until the pad bumps against Dean's teeth, letting it rest there. It's a tender and weirdly intimate gesture that makes Dean's heart beat a little too fast.

"It was..." Cas ventures finally, "Very good." Then he's back to stroking back and forth along Dean's lip, the touch almost hypnotically gentle.

"Yeah? What was your favourite part, then?"

"Your lips."

Dean laughs, "I didn't mean a body part Cas."

"I am aware of your intended meaning." Cas' expression is gentle, but his gaze is laser-focused, right on Dean's mouth. He loved the kissing, Dean remembers, deep and hungry, like he was trying to catch a taste of Dean's soul.

Cas leans over, his eyes never leaving Dean's mouth, like his pupils are pinned to the wet stripe of Dean's lips, and kisses him – slick and searching as his fingers weave through Dean's hair. Dean's scalp already tingles – though not unpleasantly – from a few too many tugs and the pressure of Cas' grip, and Dean's pretty sure it's one of the best feelings ever, that sharp sensory memory.

Cas licks along his jaw, breathes out against the pulse in his neck, "This is a sin I am fairly certain I could become accustomed to."

The words are like a kick to the gut, like ice on the back of Dean's neck. He's pulling himself from Cas' grip, rolling away and onto his feet before he's even really aware of the desire to move, fumbling for his jeans in the dark.

"Yeah," he manages, ignoring how choked he sounds. "Well don't."

***

 **Now**

"Are you alright?"

Sam's wearing his _let's talk about our feelings_ face. Dean fucking hates that face, especially lately. He's got too many damn feelings – about Sammy, about the apocalypse, about Cas – and they're tangled up so tight he doesn't know how to even _start_ unwinding them.

"I'm fine Sammy," he cranks the engine too hard, and the Impala gives a muted whine of protest. Dean bites back a sigh and gives the wheel an apologetic stroke with his palm before trying again. "Practically perfect in every way."

"Really, Dean? Because you don't sound fine."

"Are we doing this, or not?"

If Sam says _not_ , Dean feels like he's going to break his fist on the steering wheel. He needs to go out and kill something, and there's what sounds like a ghoul or two in Delphi, Indiana with _make me bleed, Dean Winchester_ written all over them.

"Yeah," Sam says finally, "of course."

Dean's out of the scrap yard and onto the road like the Devil's driving a roadster behind them (and maybe he is) tires kicking up gravel in a long wave. Sam digs his fingers into the armrest on the door and bites his lip, barely holding back the bitch-face as they swerve too close to some trees before breaking out onto the open stretch of highway.

"So what did you and Cas fight about last night?"

Dean reaches for the tape deck, but Sam snatches the cassette before he can push it in. "Put that back."

"Not until you answer my question." Sam's wearing his _I'm a stubborn little shit_ face now; the one Dean can argue with until he's blue in the face and still not get past.

"You heard it," Dean says finally.

"I heard _you_. Hell, I think all of Sioux Falls heard you."

And yeah, Dean likes to shout to get his anger out; and his fear, his panic, his desperation. Sometimes even his love. In his generous moments he figures he learned it from his Dad. Cas is more restrained – snarling, quiet, but still intimidating, his body singing with repressed power...

"Leave it alone, Sammy," Dean tries, making another grab for the tape.

"It's just, I thought things were better with you two lately – you've seemed...I dunno, friendlier – since I got back." Sam avoids his grab, leaning against the door of the Impala, holding the tape up high where Dean can't get across to reach it unless he wants to steer them into the ditch at the same time. "Then all of a sudden you're having screaming fights in the scrap yard at four a.m. and telling him to 'get back to his God-hunt'?"

He, almost mercifully, leaves the _what the hell, Dean?_ unspoken.

"Forget about it," Dean says, summoning every ounce of _I'm your big brother and that's the end of it_ that he can muster. "And put the damn tape in before I pull over and kick your ass."

Sam chews on his lip for a moment, and then relents with a little huff of annoyance that tells Dean this won't be the last time they have this discussion. Dean is grateful for the noise once Sam hits play, even if his head is pounding along with the bass line.

***

 **Then**

"Man, you are really...bad at this."

Cas fixes Dean with a long, hard glare; something Dean almost feels honour-bound to be a little bit afraid of, but he can't muster enough sincerity to try. He's pretty sure Cas could still smite him, if the angel was so inclined – the thing is, Dean knows he's not, knows he hasn't been for a long time. It's probably kind of weird that Dean likes this, having an angel of the Lord as a – what – friend? Dean's never really _had_ friends before; he's always just had Sam. The truth is it's a relief, to have a way to detach himself from his brother for a few hours and be able to forget about their problems. Not that he doesn't love Sam – he does; he loves Sammy _so fucking much_ \- but they have so many issues these days, so much to worry about and fight about that it's just... _nice_ to have something that isn't them once and a while.

"It's really too bad man," Dean continues, "because you probably have a wicked poker face."

Cas looks at the cards in his hand like they're an ancient text needing proper translation. "I don't understand the purpose of this exercise."

Dean sighs, "It's not an _exercise_ , Cas. It's a game. You play it, you have fun. Sometimes you make money."

"I don't need money."

"Which is why we aren't playing for any," Dean takes the cards from Cas' hands, shuffles them back into the deck. "You need to learn to just...relax."

Cas takes a deep, weirdly audible breath, obviously making a conscious effort to follow Dean's instructions, and Dean can't help but laugh.

"Cas..."

"What?"

Dean shakes his head, "Nothing, never mind. More beer?"

Cas nods, "I like beer."

"Of course you like beer, everyone likes beer." Dean stretches across the floor, grabs two bottles of beer from the bedside table – grateful he doesn't have to go downstairs to get more and risk waking Bobby up – the man can be downright lethal when he doesn't get his fucking beauty rest or whatever. "Maybe we should play another game."

"I don't want to play another." Cas sounds all kinds of touchy and sour over it.

"It's just because you don't want to lose again," Dean grins.

Cas gives him the smiting look again, but this time Dean only finds it funny; he leans back against the bed frame and laughs until Cas demands, "What?" which only makes Dean laugh harder, until he can't breathe, and Cas is scrabbling across the floor on his hands and knees, grabbing the front of Dean's shirt, still demanding, "What? Stop _laughing_ Dean!" until Sam pounds on the wall and wails "God, Dean – keep it down, would you?"

They go silent, instantly, though Dean is still choking a little on the laughter caught in the back of his throat when he realizes how close they are – their noses are almost touching and he can feel Cas breathing against his mouth, feel the warmth of the hand tangled up in his tee. Cas' eyes are unreal-blue, up so close, but they're not looking at _Dean_ so much as looking at his _mouth_ , and Dean has the ridiculous thought that this would actually be a really good time to kiss him.

The thought doesn't shock him as much as it probably should – he's had it before, this feeling of _want_ \- but he'd managed to pretend it was just a need to get under Cas' skin, to get a reaction out of him. Now Dean recognizes the feeling for what it really is – desire; and Cas must feel it too, because he's staring so hard that Dean can feel his gaze like a physical touch. It fills Dean's belly with the familiar warmth of lust – and yeah, this is a _perfect_ time to kiss him.

Cas makes a small, shocked noise as their mouths come together, but rather than pulling away, like Dean's half-expecting, he pushes himself right up against Dean, climbing into his lap. It's a little fast and a lot shocking, but Dean runs with it, slips his tongue along Cas' lower lip and then into his mouth when those lips part in a sigh. The hand that isn't tangled in his shirt comes up to Dean's face, fingers brush against his cheek, his jaw, his neck, feather-light touches that make Dean's skin prickle, make his clothes seem too tight and too warm.

There are long, deep, liquid kisses, tongues sliding together, lips slipping and catching, smearing wet and obscenely slow across stubble-roughened jaws; kisses that aren't really kisses, but instead hungry licks and sucking bites; and kisses that are almost chaste, simple presses of swollen, aching lips.

"Holy shit, Cas..."

Cas cups Dean's face in both his warm, strong hands, thumbs stroking Dean's cheeks, and rubs his mouth longingly against Dean's. "I like this."

"Yeah..." is the only thing that Dean can manage, because hell, he likes it too, even knowing he shouldn't. In fact, he probably likes it a little bit more because of that. He pushes his hands under Cas' trenchcoat and works it off his shoulders and down his arms until Cas shakes it off. The suit-jacket goes next, as Cas peppers Dean's face and neck with tiny, feather-light kisses, gets his hands up under Dean's tee and rakes blunt nails over skin.

Dean's cock is pushed hard and aching against the zipper of his jeans, and there's an answering bulge in the front of Cas' dress-pants, which really makes Dean's head spin, because _holy fuck_ apparently angels can get hard-ons – or at least Cas can. Dean presses his palm carefully against it, and Cas shudders, sucking in a breath before sinking his teeth into Dean's lower lip.

"Off," Dean tries, with a careful push at Cas' hips, and when Cas finally backs off enough to actually look at Dean, he seems...hurt, confused, so Dean elaborates. "The bed, Cas. It'll be better on the bed."

Cas doesn't waste a fucking second and he's on his feet, hauling Dean up with hands that might be trembling just a little in their eagerness, pushing Dean back onto the bed – and _god_ the kissing! Dean loves kissing, _loves_ it, but Cas is fucking ravenous for it, Dean can barely keep up, can barely breathe around Cas' tongue as they battle their clothes off onto the floor.

Cas is stroking his stomach, winding his fingers in the curls at the base of Dean's cock, when it occurs to Dean to ask, "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

Cas' fingers slide down the seam of Dean's hip, skirt behind his balls, light, but insistent – and yeah, it sure as hell seems like Cas might know what he's doing.

"I thought you were supposed to be a virgin."

Cas smiles, and there's a lot less lust and more tenderness there than Dean was actually expecting. "I understand the principle," Cas ventures first, and Dean's about to protest except he finishes with, "and I have touched you in ways far more intimate than this."

Which is true, except that it's not something Dean usually thinks about. Of course now it's the only thing he _can_ think about, even as he mumbles half-coherent instructions and fumbles out the tube of KY hidden between the mattress and the wall. Cas coats two fingers, then just sits there a minute, looking at them like maybe he doesn't have any idea how to go ahead after all, and then all at once he's pressing a cool, slick finger deep into Dean's body like it belongs there.

Dean would worry about the noise he's making as Cas works first one, then two fingers into his body; would worry about Sammy hearing them from the other side of the wall, but Cas is licking deep into his mouth, lapping up every garbled syllable and broken gasp until Dean feels like his insides have gone to liquid with need, until he's got a leg hooked around Cas' hip and he's stuttering profanities in between bouts of "yeah, fuck Cas, fuck me – c'mon."

Cas does. Slow and hard and endless.

***

 **Now**

The trouble with an adrenaline high is that it doesn't last nearly long enough. They're barely two hours post-hunt and Dean's pretty much tapped out, exhausted and nursing a headache and a beer on the hood of the Impala, along with the freshly-stitched gash in his forearm. Sammy's asleep in the back seat in a mass of gargantuan limbs and the night is turning winter-cold, just starting to catch Dean's breath in the air when he hears the soft rush of wings.

Dean doesn't turn to look - though it takes effort. Only a slight hitch in his breathing and a flex of his fingers around the beer bottle betray that he even notices Cas is there. The silence stretches until Dean can feel it starting to fray around the edges, and finally Cas says, "I have a problem."

Dean wants to say something like _of course you do_ or _welcome to my fucking life_ but instead he says, "Yeah, like what?"

"I can't seem to decide if I want to kiss you or punch you in the face."

That's finally enough to make Dean look over. Cas is standing right up against the side of the Impala - too close, as always – looking back at Dean in a mixture of anger and genuine confusion. Dean's jaw gives a pre-emptive ache as he asks, "Is there a third option?"

"I don't think so."

Dean takes a long breath, lets it out hard, and knocks back a mouthful of beer. If he could pick, he'd probably head for option one - not just because he wants to avoid loose teeth and split lips, but because he wants it, wants Cas. The trouble is, it goes against the things he knows, things he's promised himself are going to stay secret, because there's a part of him that believes they're more likely to come true if he talks about them – like a dark wish, a jinx.

He tries, "Don't fall...for me," and hating the way that comes out, adds, "I mean, for this. It isn't worth it."

He only realizes that those words make even less sense when Cas tilts his head and scowls.

This is why Dean hates words -- they're never adequate. He could turn to Cas and say _if you let this happen, you won't have any faith left, in anything, and I'll become a completely soulless asshole, and for some reason you'll still be willing to die for me_ but it won't be anywhere near enough to articulate the pain of the memories any more than when he tried saying something simple like: _don't ever change_. By all rights he should be safe, should have written that future out of existence already by virtue of the fact that Sam is _here_ with him, not out there somewhere willing to let Lucifer take up real estate inside his brain as the only alternative to being alone; but Dean won't let himself believe it -- can't let himself believe it -- until the proof is right in front of him, and he has years to wait for that yet.

"I cannot simply _stop_ , Dean," Cas' voice is a barely restrained growl, but his blue eyes hold a flash of panic that ties Dean's guts up in knots. "I cannot _slam on the brakes_ , I cannot undo this. I chose this – this fool's crusade to save the world, I chose _you_ , and Sam; and though my Father's forgiveness is everlasting, mine _will not be_ if you make me regret my choice. So do not turn to me now and say that it isn't worth it."

"That's not..." Dean tries, feeling stunned, jaw working uselessly when Cas cuts him off.

"I know what you meant, Dean. I know everything you meant."

Dean looks away, feeling a traitorous swell of guilt. "You really have to stop the mind-reading thing."

"I wasn't reading your mind."

It would be easier if Cas was, Dean thinks, because he's mostly shit at promises. They are almost uniformly broken before they leave his mouth. Pretty much the best he can offer is, "I'll try, okay Cas? I'll try not to make you regret being here...with me."

With the stare Cas gives him – and Cas has a number of different stares, Dean can tell them apart these days – he looks like he's going to say something along the lines of _do or do not, there is no try_ ; but instead he says. "I suppose that's enough."

Dean snorts, "Yeah well, you have to try too. Try..." he thinks about that other Cas, a broken, shaking mess of pain and doubt and loss. "Try not to hit the ground so damn hard."

Cas thinks about it for minute, then says, "Fine. I think I'll kiss you now."

Dean's grins helplessly, sitting up and swinging his feet down to the dirt. They're so close together he has to cage Cas between his knees. "Are you sure you don't want to hit me instead?"

Cas frowns, "I will if you...ruin the mood again."

"Deal."

Dean winds his hand in Cas' tie and pulls him forward until their forehead's tap and the mist of their combined breathing tangles together. Cas' fixes that unwavering blue gaze of his on Dean's lips, and when their mouths press together, there is a soft sound of relief.

Dean isn't sure who makes it; probably they both do.

-End-


End file.
